


Quinquies Pro Fidelibus Defunctis

by gaygreekgladiator (ama)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: 4 + 1 fic, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, for the payment of the wine. Then the boozers start to drink; they drink once to those in prison, after that, three times for the living, four times for all Christendom, five times for the faithful departed</p><p>(or, 4 times Castus drowned his sorrows, and one time he toasted the future)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quinquies Pro Fidelibus Defunctis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pameluke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pameluke/gifts).



> The title is from Carmina Burana; the prompt from pameluke at the Spartacus Fic-a-thon. Posting this now because I'm like 90% sure that the ending will be total bs by the time tonight's episode airs....
> 
> By the way, the last two sections are based in HISTORY, not on spoilers for the show, so don't worry about any of it actually happening/being spoiled. Who knows if that's the way it'll actually work out or not.

1\. _Pro Familiae_

He was in the fields with Masagava when the pirates came.

That was where Capussa spent most of his time, to be honest—in the fields with his cousin, complaining. The topic varied, from the difficulty in finding time to actually practice his reading, to his uncle, to the other cousins, to people in town, and back to his uncle again. Masagava never minded. Mostly he was amused.

“Your whole life you have spent with us, nearly—surely you cannot consider yourself apart still?”

“I can,” Capussa said sourly, kicking at a clump of dirt and scowling at the horizon. “You know how he is, Masagava. Not a day goes by without some sly word, never enough to merit confrontation, but…”

“And half the time you return words, with your charming way of doing it, so that we all _know_ you’ve insulted Father, but not a one of us can figure out _how_.”

“I am a dutiful and loyal nephew!” Capussa protested, hiding his smile. Masagava rolled his eyes.

“Yes. But you are different. Do not deny it, Capussa. You _are_. The way you speak, the way you study, the way your imagination runs. You are not like us, and it has nothing to do with paternity. It is the gods. Their influence has made you stand out, and Father merely wishes to plow the crop that grows too tall.”

“I could stand to grow taller,” Capussa said ruefully, looking up at his cousin, who was head-and-shoulders taller than him, still. Masagava chuckled.

Before he could respond though, there was a scream—a high, piercing scream that carried on the wind, and both boys looked around. A deep frown creased Masagava’s forehead, and he placed a hand on Capussa’s shoulder.

“Come. Let us go home and see the cause of trouble.”

They moved hastily, and found the small house crowded with Capussa’s uncle, aunt, and cousins, all talking loudly, in high, nervous voices.

“What has happened?” Masagava demanded.

“Pirates,” Aunt said, her face strained.

“Quickly,” Uncle urged. He looked nearly apoplectic with emotion, and he bustled throughout the room, barking orders and shoving things into people’s hands. “We must go, quickly, and flee the town before they arrive. I am rich compared to the fools by the waterside—the pirates will slaughter us all for a few measly treasures!”

“Slaughter? Never.”

Someone screamed. Capussa did not see who. His attention was frozen on the three men who had just entered the room with drawn swords. Pirates.

“We do not desire blood,” the one in the middle said with a smile. “It is of very little value, all things considered.”

Uncle drew forward, his voice trembling.

“What do you want, then? Anything you wish for, you shall have.”

“You have no shortage of sons,” the pirate said, surveying the faces crowding the room. He spoke congenially, and patted Gauda’s shoulder with a smile. “Our crew is short numbered. If one of these fine young men should consent to join us, I am sure we need only part with a small token of appreciation from our brother’s family, eh?”

Sweat glinted on Uncle’s face as he glanced around the room. Capussa watched him, his mind already dulled by the knowledge of what was sure to happen. He was small and thin compared to his cousins; he would have been overlooked by the pirates, had his uncle not laid eyes upon him at the opportune moment. He stepped forward hastily, ignoring the pirates who raised swords at his movement, and grabbed Capussa roughly by the arm.

“Here,” he cried, relief in his voice. “Take the boy—he is strong, stronger than you would believe, and his father a great warrior—my sister’s husband—dead many years, his soul living on in his son—take him, take him—”

Capussa glared at him murderously. Those were the first pleasant words his uncle had ever said about his father, and there was no time to press for more. Before he could speak, the pirate stepped forward and took chin in hand. He inspected Capussa briefly, judgment in his gaze.

“Hm. What say you, boy? Have you desire to take to the seas?”

“It makes no difference,” Capussa said quietly, the words garbled by the hand on his jaw.

“Speak clearly, I can understand nothing. Can you fight?”

Not well. Capussa’s eyes slid to the side and he saw his aunt and Masgava huddled in the back. Masagava was the tallest and the strongest. If given a choice, the pirates would pick him. But Masagava… he was made for the fields and the animals and the family he loved. Capussa did not belong here. He did not _want_ to belong here.

His eyes flickered back to meet the pirate’s, and he nodded. The pirate laughed and released the grip on his face, only to pull Capussa in a tight, one-armed hug.

“Then welcome to our crew, brother! And you—” He gestured with his sword at Uncle. “Tribute from loyal client would be greatly appreciated by my captain.”

Uncle nodded silently and bustled over to the box where he kept his most valuable possessions, just visible in the corner of his room. He pulled out two rings and a heavy necklace and gave them to the pirate. He examined them for a moment before pronouncing them worthy.

“Wonderful! We will treat your nephew well in return for this and perhaps some other small homages, when we sail nearby. Until then, a fond farewell.”

The pirate nodded gravely, and departed from the room. Capussa followed him on numb legs. The streets seemed to be full of pirates. Some walking along cheerfully, laughing with their companions, some burdened under the weight of treasure, or followed by lines of newly-made slaves. Capussa recognized some of his neighbors, and averted his gaze. He was not a slave; that was a blessing. He was… a pirate, too.

“What’ve you got, Heracleo?” one of the men called as he passed.

Heracleo slipped one of Uncle’s rings onto his fingers inconspicuously and the necklace into his pocket, and shrugged.

“Bah! Little. A ring of some value. And a new member of our illustrious crew—your name, boy,” he said in an aside.

“Capussa,” he said, still in a slight daze. He had just seen a pirate pass by with what was unmistakably blood, and bits of flesh, clinging to his hair, and his stomach churned.

“Again with the mumbling,” Heracleo muttered to himself, and raised his voice to talk to the other pirate again. “Castus,” he called .

Close enough. It was fitting, in a way… Capussa and Castus would lead very different lives, he could already tell. Heracleo led him onto the ship, where four or five other new recruits already stood, some looking around nervously, some eagerly. Castus smiled at them, hoping for some recognition at least, but they ignored him.

“There we go,” Heracleo said with a pleased smile, pressing a cup of wine into his hand. “Look to the sea with a smile—it is a long journey, my friend. Later you will learn.  For now, a drink. To the family of the past, and the camaraderie of the future.” He wheeled around, and held up his own cup in a toast to the man who stood at the prow. “And to our captain, Charion, king of the seas!” Heracleo roared.

The pirates shouted in agreement and wine sloshed onto the deck. Castus mimicked their movements, raising his arm, and then drank deeply from his cup. The wine was strong and full, unlike any Uncle had allowed him previously, and excitement sparked his blood. He gazed out over the deck and silently gave his farewells to his family.

The world awaited.

 

2\. _Pro Innocentiae_

Life with the pirates turned out to be a series of one lesson after another in a very short time—how to sail, how to fight, how to navigate by the stars, how to judge the value of a slave. One of the pirates even offered to teach Castus how to properly fuck a whore, although he was not sure if that had been jest or no. In any case, that was a lesson he declined.

And now another one was upon him: how to keep from death when on a ship in a storm.

It had come upon them suddenly. For a day or two the winds had been mercurial, shifting directions on a whim, growing in power and then settling, and some of the older sailors had been seen muttering with their heads together. The evening before the storm broke, Heracleo had even taken the precaution of hacking off a few heavy locks of hair and casting them into the sea, to appease Poseidon’s dark displeasure.

The sacrifice didn’t work, and when the sun had set, the winds had come howling back from a hundred different directions, accompanied by torrential rain. It was a full moon that night, but the sky was so covered with black clouds that it resembled the craggy, unbroken face of a mountain.

The ship was a mass of frantic bodies and shouts, but Castus had no idea what to do—this was the time for action, not education. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him by the arm.

“The yard,” Heracleo said, shouting over the wind

He pointed to the enormous beam. It ran almost the entire length of the ship, and as Castus looked, he saw that already some men had managed to secure ropes to it, and were pulling it down as quickly as they could without damaging the ship. The winds were against them.

Hastily, Casuts followed Heracleo to the aft, and together they slung the great rope over one end of the yard. It was difficult work, made more difficult when they actually had to seize the ropes and pull. After a few moments or hours—impossible to tell in the chaos and darkness—Charion joined them, and the yard was finally pulled down. Castus jumped over to lash it to the deck.

As he completed the task, he realized that Heracleo was no longer by his side. He looked up just in time to see Heracleo propping up the captain’s lifeless body.

Castus froze, his eyes fixed to the dark, still-bleeding wound on Charion’s head. He could not be sure—but it looked as though the butt of a sword had hit him hard. Without pausing, Heracleo pitched the body over the side of the ship, and looked at Castus innocently.

“The beam,” he yelled, making a vague gesture to his own head. “Pity. And of course, the body must be rid of as soon as possible. Bad luck, to have a death on board.”

 _And what about a murder_?, Castus could have said, but something stilled his tongue. Politics on a ship were complicated. Confined to a small space with men who were quarrelling was difficult, and so disputes were avoided whenever possible. Or, when they occurred, they were over simple things, like dice and clothes and duties. It was hard to know what a man thought of you. One day he could be clasping your shoulder like a brother, the next… he could be cheerfully throwing your corpse overboard.

Heracleo liked him. At least, Castus was reasonably certain that he did, which was more than he could say for most of the crew. So he kept his mouth shut, and nodded, and went back to the other men to see how he could be of best use in the storm.

\---

Hours later, after the storm had finally cleared and the sun peeked over the horizon, Castus fell, exhausted to his bed. Before his eyes could close, however, the curtain of his tent was pushed aside, and Heracleo appeared with a jug of wine and two cups.

“You have survived the night, my friend—a drink to that, eh?”

Survived the _night_. Castus accepted the cup grimly, wondering if it was poisoned.  Well, he was exhausted, and there was no good way to tell. He closed his eyes and drank deeply.

Not poisoned. He opened his eyes to see Heracleo smiling at him like a proud father.

“Gratitude… captain.”

Heracleo chuckled and held up his cup in a toast.

“You adjust quickly to life at sea. Gone is the fearful nephew of Numidia… may you rise quickly in our ranks, Castus.”

Heracleo patted him on the knee and stood to leave. Just as he had departed, the boy who shared Castus’s tent arrived. Castus drained his wine, rolled over so his face could not be seen, and promptly fell asleep. He dreamed of crashing waves, and bodies beneath the roiling sea.

 

3\. _Pro Amatori_

Occasionally, Castus was not opposed to the intimate touch of the woman. With the right woman, in the right moment, he was perfectly willing to be persuaded. Very few of his fellows needed persuading, especially on such a night—their numbers shrunk by battle, their skin marked by Roman swords. The easiest comfort to be found is in the arms of Sicilian whores, so they fell to them promptly.

Castus joined them in the brothel, but kept his eyes and hands fixed to his cup. Wine was the only thing he desired. Wine, and Palaimon yet at his side.

“I would share cup and company.”

He glanced up to see a woman, heavy-breasted and golden-haired, looking at him with the beguiling smile all good whores donned.

“I would keep both to myself.”

The woman laughed, pushed aside his arm, and deposited herself on his lap. Had he kept his sword at his side while in the brothels, she would have had a rude surprise. The thought made his lips twitch, and she misinterpreted the gesture as an encouraging smile.

“You are in the wrong place for that. Solitude is not a service often given in a whorehouse. Come, pay for my drink and I will reward you.”

Castus sighed and threw a few coins on the table. The whore leaned over and fetched herself spare cup and a fuller jug of wine, and treated herself to a liberal portion.

“There,” she said. She drank and leaned in to kiss Castus on the mouth. The quick, invasive presence of her tongue was made bitter by drink, and he reached out to hold onto one shoulder, gently forcing her to keep her distance. “Now we are better acquainted,” she declared.

“And I will remember you fondly,” Castus promised. “Now go.”

For the first time, the whore’s smile flickered. She set down her cup and locked her arms around his neck.

“You have such a fair face,” she said in a soft, soothing coo. “It seizes heart to view it gouged by worry. Come, tell Calida of your troubles, and I will see them driven from mind.”

Castus almost hesitated. The brothel was loud, but the woman on his lap sat so close that there was an illusion of privacy between them. Nothing shared between the circle of her arms felt as though it could breach such a barrier. And yet…

“I know not how to begin. In any case, I prefer my own counsel.”

“A common thing, spoken by men who fear damaging others’ opinion of them. But _you_ are not of Sicilia, and you need not fear that my tongue shall wag. Well, not needlessly, in any case.” Castus leaned around her to grasp his cup again. “With such grim expression, it must be a wife who troubles you.”

His expression safely hidden, Castus smiled into his wine.

“I lay claim to no woman—and, if the gods are good, never shall.”

“Is it neighbor that prompts frowns, then? A friend, or brother-in-arms? And do not look so surprised, though you bear no sword at present. It is a whore’s duty to know who enters her place of business, and your brothers are a fearsome lot, scarred and decked in knives.”

Calida was smarter than he had thought her to be. By the way she spoke, her accents, he could tell she was not educated, nor native to Sicilia, but her skills of observation were sharp, and prompted a straightforward answer.

“A friend.”

“By what name?” she asked casually, but the word stuck in Castus’s throat, and he swallowed more wine to release it.

“Palaimon,” he said softly. There was too much emotion in his voice; pity flashed in Calida’s eyes, but she forced her voice to remain light.

“Was he prettier than me?” she asked shrewdly. Unbelievingly, Castus laughed.

“Yes. But that is no insult; he was prettier than many.”

Chestnut hair and fair skin that freckled under the sun—that spring, Castus had taken to pricking each dot with his nail until Palaimon’s skin was so sensitized that the slightest tickle made him squirm. Soon, though, the freckles were so profuse that he might have been tan, and they had had to find other ways to occupy themselves. He smiled sadly.

“Ah. Is he dead?”

One hand tightened on his cup; his arm tightened around her waist.

“Yes.”

“A pity,” she sighed, lifting one hand to touch his face. “Perhaps _he_ could have soothed the lines from your brow, and together we might have even offered cause for smile.”

Flirtatious words sprung to Castus’s lips, but he bit them back. He liked flirting with whores; they were better at it then common folk. But poor stupid Palaimon had often had difficulty discerning game from earnest seduction. To see Castus now, with a woman on his lap and a drunk tongue about to spill foolish words from lips, would devastate him… were he yet alive.

He found his fingers idly dancing up and down Calida’s spine, and she shivered at his touch.

“He was kind,” he said instead. “And good company. Deserving of more than Roman sword in gut.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“No. Not all.”

She thought he meant it as a slight, and she pouted. Her lips were dark pink in the lamplight.

“You insult me,” she accused.

“Never.”

“Your friend, probably, would forgive you any insult, but I am not so good. I require coin to soothe wounded heart, or else I shall skewer you with cruel words of my own, and leave you bleeding in my wake.”

“I have no doubt,” Castus murmured.

He reached up absently to trail a hand through her golden hair, watching as the silky locks parted at his touch. From the corner of his eye, he saw her lips curve in a satisfied smile, and she squared her shoulders. He obeyed the unspoken command and dropped his fingers to her breasts. He traced slow circles over her skin and finally bent his neck to press a kiss to her nipple. Her nails scratched lazily at the back of his neck.

“Coin,” she reminded him.

He lifted his head only to rest it on her shoulder with a weary sigh.

“Gladly. But first… more wine.”

 

4\. _Pro Amicis_

Someone had given him a cloak. Castus was grateful for it. Even had he been in possession of his own still, that one was made for travel by sea. It was warm enough, but not thick, made to repel water rather than retain heat. This one was rough and heavy, so that he could draw it around him and at least feel the biting wind only on the tips of his ears.

It was especially appreciated now, when he avoided the fires. Each one was surrounded by mourners.

He stood among the tents, gazing unseeingly into the dark sky, occasionally shivering. His mind was blank, except for idle musings on the shape of his breath as white smoke spiraled in the air. And the stars. They always seemed so much dimmer when he was on land. Heracleo had said he saw the same.

“You fought bravely this past day.”

Castus turned to see Nasir lingering inside the faint circle of light still cast by the fire. He was bundled in coats and furs, with a cup clutched in each red-tinted hand.

“I did what was commanded. As did you.”

“And yet I enjoy the comfort of friends and fire, while you remove yourself from them.”

Castus shrugged, and Nasir stepped forward.

“Come,” he said.

“I fear my presence will not be looked on favorably,” Castus admitted. “In times of loss, no man wishes for strange eyes to observe his grief.”

Nasir looked down at the snow-covered ground, and swallowed.

“We mourn fallen brother. You have stood with us for long enough—none would turn you away.”

“Fallen brothers,” Castus repeated, a sardonic smile curling his lips. “Yes. The brothers I would mourn lie rotting beneath the waves, and in the walls of Sinuessa en Valle—struck down by the very men who sit grieving by the fire. And you would have me share cup with them?”

There was no bitterness in his voice—at least, he hoped there wasn't. Castus held no grudge against the rebels who had lifted sword against those who betrayed them, and nor did he expect them to act remorseful and apologetic in his presence. At the same time, though, he recognized that there was a gap between him and them that could not be bridged. He was resigned to it.

For a moment, all was silent except the wind and snow whispering through the mountains. Snowflakes caught in Nasir’s black hair like stars in the night sky, and Castus yearned to reach out, to brush them away and rest his cold fingers against Nasir’s cheek....

“Besides,” he said with a feeble smile, attempting to ward off the solemnity. “I have sworn off drink. It seems to bring only ills.”

Nasir swallowed thickly. When he spoke, his lips barely moved, as if numbed by cold or emotion.

“My friend Chadara—my only friend in the world—was the first to betray us. She tried to abscond from camp with purse, and map baring our location. I could not ask others to mourn with me, when her death ensured our safety, but neither did they ask me to bury my grief.”

Slowly, Castus stepped forward and gently freed one of the cups from Nasir’s grasp. Nasir’s hand fell to his side, but Castus’s skin yet tingled where they had touched.

“Let us lift cup together, then,” he said quietly. “To traitors.”

Nasir’s lips flickered in a smile, and together they drank. The wine was heavily watered and not of good quality, but it was wine, and Castus savored the taste on his tongue.

As he swallowed, a harsh wail echoed on the wind, and Castus looked up.

“Naevia,” Nasir said, his face twisting in pain. “I should go to her…”

Crixus’s woman had been untouchable since his death; the fated moment had heard screams rent the mountain air, but after that she had fallen quiet and still as a corpse. Perhaps Spartacus was with her still.

Castus’s attentions were fixed on Nasir. In his expression, he saw several emotions vying for prominence: grief for his fallen general; sympathy for his friend; terror that he might soon be in her place. It was no surprise to him that Nasir turned quickly away as his breath came out in a sharp sob, bit back and muffled behind his hand.

Castus touched his shoulder, and then—when Nasir leaned closer—wrapped his arms around the Syrian in a diffident hug. With Nasir so bundled in cloaks, it was difficult to tell whether Castus’s touch offered comfort, but he could think of nothing else to do. All he admired about Nasir had been gained from observation and secondhand intelligence. He knew not whether a light-hearted comment, or a change of subject, would be the preferred method of consolation, or if more meaningful words were needed. If they were, he did not know what to say.

He sighed and rubbed Nasir’s shoulder.

“Come—let us seek Agron.”

“No,” Nasir mumbled, shaking his head. “No, he cannot see—after Donar and Crixus—I cannot ask for sympathy.”

“You can,” Castus said firmly. “And your presence will be comfort in turn.

Reluctantly, Nasir nodded, and Castus guided him back into the firelight. Agron set opposite them. He was a changed man these past few days. His eyes were wide and dull with impotent rage, his face splotchy with uneven tears. He did not even notice that Castus was holding Nasir until they approached, and Castus spoke his name. Even then, he looked up at Castus and had not a single word of reproach. His eyes merely slipped over to Nasir, and the anger in his face faded.

He held out his arms and Nasir settled into them, kissing Agron’s forehead. Agron buried his face in the crook of Nasir’s shoulder, and Castus moved away so he would not accidentally hear the murmured words that passed between them.

This time, he did not go far, though. He sat down at the fire, surrounded by former slaves, and observed them. Most took no notice of him. One—the Celt, Gannicus—was staring blankly at the wavering flames. After a moment, he looked up and met Castus’s gaze. He gave a small nod. Castus knew not what to make of the gesture. He simply nodded back and raised his cup in silent tribute. For whom, he was not entirely certain.

The fire crackled, and the bitter mountain wind scorched his skin.

 

\+ 1 _Pro Ipsi_

Fourth watch of the night. It had been a long, long time since Castus had been forced to this shift, keeping watch over the dawn; it was well-known on the ship that he despised to be woken so early, and that any other time was preferable, even if it entailed waking in the midst of slumber. Heracleo’s right hand had often been afforded the privilege of selecting his own shifts.

When he was young, though… well he remembered the crisp taste of mornings at sea, and the brittle blue of the skies. For hours, it seemed, the sky would be brightened, before finally the first ray of golden sun sliced the sky like a blade, and shattered like glass on the water. Now, he stared at the snow-covered mountains, which surely would block the feeble rays of dawn’s first light, and breathed in cold air. It had no smell, but the very feel of it was as pungent as the salt of the Mediterranean.

“Are we dead yet?”

Castus turned with a smile to find Gannicus stumbling towards him, wineskin in hand. Castus liked the Celt; serious thoughts lurked in his mind, and he was occasionally persuaded to divulge them, but he did not give in to the grim anger the other gladiators displayed. And sometimes there was a guarded empathy in his face when Castus lingered too long over Nasir, in looks or words. In the little time Castus had traveled with the rebels, Gannicus had become trusted companion.

“No. But _you_ are already drunk, commander, and the sun not risen—shame!”

“Not drunk.” Gannicus fell beside Castus and shook the wineskin to indicate that it was still full. “Merely angry at the gods who drive me from sleep and my woman’s arms.”

“We are of like mind.”

“You have no cause for complaint—a sentry should remain far from sleep. And the arms of another man’s woman.”

Castus chuckled and accepted the wineskin when passed to him. With the sky still a deep and impenetrable purple, it felt like night yet reigned. He took a sip, and was surprised to notice that it was unwatered and rich.

“This is from Heracleo’s shipment.”

“The last of it, appropriated from Spartacus’s stores. Trust a pirate to recognize stolen goods upon immediate touch.”

“A pirate without ship or captain,” Castus said wryly.

“As a gladiator without arena,” Gannicus said with a sage nod. “Freedom comes with its burdens. At the end of the day, I would rather know myself as a man, rather than a body to fill designated position.”

 _Like mind again_ , Castus thought, and drank to hide his smile.

“I have never been a slave,” he mused, though it made little difference. He had been beaten and scarred and lashed by Rome, all the same. Wordlessly, Gannicus reached out and took hold of Castus’s hand. He flipped it over, exposing the brand mark on his palm—two short lines intersecting just beneath the muscle of his thumb. “Done at my request. Warriors of my tribe would mark themselves with such.”

Castus smiled to himself as he thought back. His uncle had been furious; bad enough to be burdened with ungrateful nephew, but one who dreamed of battle and travel and adventure? Insulting beyond belief.

“Hmph,” Gannicus remarked, then shrugged. “It makes no difference. The Romans have fucked us all, anyway.”

“You speak truth, brother,” Castus laughed, saluting him. “And now we sit on this gods-cursed mountain, begging for more. Had we any sense, we would be out of Italia now—Gaul in the spring must be a sight worth seeing.”

Gannicus shrugged noncommittally.

“You are a free man, are you not? Leave, and see it yourself.”

“But I won’t,” Castus sighed. “And neither will you.”

“I am an old drunk,” Gannicus snorted.

“You are a champion without an arena. I, a pirate without ship… and a wanderer lost sight of the road,” he admitted with a low sigh, eyes fixed on the mountain peaks. Almost an hour ago, two of the women in camp had departed there to worship. He wondered where they had gone; it was a low hill compared to those surrounding it, but he could see no silhouette in the faint rosy glow of dawn. “Spartacus sees it.”

“The Thracian sees much more than I would have expected of him. Light and shadows both. If we survive, it will be because of him.”

“And if we do not?”

Gannicus shrugged and passed him the wineskin again.

“It will be a glorious death.”

There was a heavy pause as Castus drank, and then Gannicus steered the conversation to other topics—Castus’s homeland again, and the places he had travelled. Gannicus equaled his knowledge on Italy and its islands, but beyond that he had heard only gossip or rumors, and they entertained themselves trading stories of foreign lands, true or fabricated, and various conquests of the years.

Just as the golden rim of the sun edged over the mountains, Castus heard footsteps. He stood, weapon in hand, and stared out into the valley, relaxing only slightly when he saw that it was the two women who had gone to worship—Celts, both of them, with long unbound hair and hard eyes.

“Crassus,” one of them blurted as soon as she was within earshot. “We saw him from the ridge—he awaits with his armies just through the pass.”

Castus could feel a cold chill settle into his bones as Gannicus pressed for more information. They had split their forces from Spartacus. He was not far, and could probably be reached by a fast rider before all hope was abandoned. The only question was whether he would arrive in time to aid an army of the living, or to tend the field of corpses.

Gannicus gave the order to rouse the camp, and the two women departed. The Celt turned to Castus, a grim look on his face, and extended the wineskin.

“To victory—or a death to be proud of.”

Castus took a deep breath, and drank.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1--For Family. 2--For Innocence. 3--For a Lover. 4--For Friends. +1--For Self.


End file.
